


standing on an overpass

by sonflour



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: College drop out, Friends to Lovers, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-14 11:11:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14134872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonflour/pseuds/sonflour
Summary: A journey of self-deprecating jokes, awful roommates, and awkward sexual encounters. The summer in which Dan found himself unemployed and with too much time on his hands.





	1. it’s washing fuckin’ dishes, greg

**Author's Note:**

> First phanfiction--let's go.

A loud shatter of glass reverberated against the linoleum kitchen floor. The crash was followed by a brief moment of silence in which everyone--the cooks, servers, and most importantly, his manager--stopped what they were doing and stared. Their expressions, he felt, were glazed in judgement and slight pity. He felt his face go red as he awkwardly bent down to clean it up. Slowly, everyone else went back to work--the cooks continued to make the day’s special (fresh tomato soap) and the servers gingerly stepped over him and his mess. One server, the new guy, attempted to help him pick up the broken pieces, but the manager, in exasperation, asked him to go wait on his tables. The server offered him a sympathetic grin before promptly standing up and going through the steel doors.

His manager, a big, intimidatingly burly gentleman, knelt down to where his and the bus boy’s eyes were levelled with each other. The boy gulped.

“After you’re done cleaning this up, meet me in my office, Daniel.”

He meekly nodded in response. Once his manager had left the kitchen, Dan let out a massive breath. Without much concern for his skin, he picked up the sharp ceramic pieces and threw them in the bin. He swept the floor and made sure any remaining glass fragments were thrown away. When he was done, he shamefully made his way to his manager’s office. A poorly lit corridor reflected the dread he felt weighing down on his chest. The door was slightly opened, but he knocked anyways.

“Come in,” The voice made his heart palpitate horrifically quick. But he stepped in, anyways. The office was pretty bare, except for some football memorabilia of a club Dan didn’t recognize. When he sat down in the chair across from his manager, he noticed his name plack--Greg McGowen--and a picture of who he assumed was his girlfriend. She was blonde and pretty--too pretty for him.

“Daniel, do you like this job?” Greg’s head was cocked to one side as he spoke. Dan, for whatever reason, immediately noticed how uneven Greg’s haircut was. Or maybe, how lopsided the shape of his head was. He couldn’t really tell, but the mere observation made the moment a lot less daunting.

“It pays the bills,” He shrugged.

“But do you like it?”

The question, frankly, pissed him off. The skin between his eyebrows furrowed, “It’s washing fuckin’ dishes, Greg.”

“Yeah, but it seems to me like you can’t even do that, mate!” Greg was right. This hadn’t been the first time Dan had dropped a stack of plates. In fact, he couldn’t do most of his job description right, no matter how basic.

“Well, what? Am I gettin’ sacked?” At this point, Dan was just annoyed. He had a knack of putting up a front when it came to these situations. Dan desperately needed this job, but he wasn’t about to let Greg know that. Instead, he acted as if the idea of unemployment didn’t faze him. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned back in his chair.

“If you don’t clean up your act, yes. If you don’t like your job, at least act like you do. I promise I won’t know the difference. This is your last chance, Daniel--I’m not warning you, again.”

Dan uncrossed his arms and bit the corner of his lip. He contemplated for a brief second whether this job was really worth it, before standing up and walking out of Greg’s office. He made a quick beeline to the side exit. It led to the dark alley where they would take out the garbage and step out for a smoke. He took out a pack from his back pocket, stuck one between his teeth, and watched the flame of his lighter singe the other end. He hadn’t always been one for smoking, but around his first year of uni, the habit developed itself. Now, he couldn’t go a day without it. He sat down on the door steps.

It was around ten o’clock outside--the moon casted a grey shadow over London as the city’s nightlife began to pollute the air. There was a single lamp perched against the restaurant’s wall that enveloped Dan in a yellow haze. Gnats danced around the single source of light, causing him to swat multiple of them away. Suddenly, the door behind him creaked open.

“Oof, watch out, mate.”

Dan turned around. He saw the new server carrying two full bin liners in each hand. Dan immediately stood up and went to help, but the guy just walked around him and threw each one in the giant green bin. He heard the broken rubble of plates as they smashed against the insides.

“It was gettin’ kind of full, so I thought I’d help you out.”

“Oh, thanks.” Dan felt a bit guilty, truth be told. It was his job to take out the trash, “You didn’t have to do that. I was going to do it after I was done with my break.”  
The boy shrugged. His hair was jet black and blended in with the dark alleyway perfectly. The yellow light from the lamp gave his skin a golden tint and washed out his eyes. He began walking back, “Well, now you don’t have to.”

Dan furrowed his brow. He quickly caught up to him and followed him inside. The madness of the kitchen flooded his ears. It had been so quiet outside and now, clanking of silverware and shouting of orders was all he heard.

“What’s your name?” He asked above the noise. The guy looked back at Dan. His eyes were an ardent shade of blue and his skin was the colour of paper. It could have just been the fluorescent lights, but the boy looked as pale as snow. He grabbed some plates that were ready to be served off the counter before answering Dan’s question.

“Phil. What’s yours?”

“Dan.”

He didn’t know why he introduced himself as Dan--everyone in the restaurant knew him by Daniel, for it was the name that was listed on everyone’s schedule. He had never bothered telling anyone that he prefered the shorter version of his name. But then again, no one had asked.

Phil nodded, “Okay, well, Dan, just so you know, your hand’s bleeding.”

Dan looked down at his palms. Some of his fingers were lined in cuts and gashes. It wasn’t bleeding profusely, for the blood had, at that point, mostly dried. Dan narrowed his brows--he hadn’t noticed. When he looked back up, Phil was gone.

Dan rinsed off the blood in the kitchen sink. He winced as the water ran through his exposed flesh. Suddenly, he felt a looming figure behind him.

“For fuckssake, Daniel! Not over the bloody plates!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have a whole lot of plans for this story, to be honest.


	2. phil, was it?

Sharing a run-down flat with three other aimless college dropouts, Dan often found himself in anything but good company. The two-bedroom, one bathroom apartment had quickly become a self-loathing combine masked by the clouds of substance abuse. Even as he walked through the front door now--barely half past noon--the strong scent of Hail Mary and ignorant bliss attacked his lungs (not that they were in relatively good shape to begin with).

“Danny-boy, how’d your search for shit minimum wage go? Found a spot in the hairy arse-crack of capitalism, did ya’?” That was John--a 21 year old who quit his pre-med track to pursue, what he calls, music. A real modern Lennon, the boy rejected the materialism and incessant rules of society and instead, preached of minimalism and higher planes. Dan thought he was just a pretentious, condescending prick.  

Dan mustered a measly, tightly pursed smile but said nothing. If it were any other, fully employed day, Dan would have made a quick remark about John’s inability to cope with the fact that he gave up a six-figure salary to play half-empty shows in front of a half-baked, half-wasted crowds. But alas--Dan had been fired two days ago, and therefore, was no better than him.

“Oh, shut up, John. Go finger Yoko and get us the rent money you owe.” Keith, Dan’s other roommate who was notoriously high on his girlfriend’s perfume rather than drugs, smirked in John’s direction. Yoko was the nickname Dan and Keith adopted for John’s older (and wealthier)“lady friend”. While not Asian or nearly as infamous, she did seem to have John on a short, protective leash.

The boy, visibly irritated, continued to roll his spliff in silence. Dan chuckled beneath his breath.

“Where’s Lottie?” Dan asked, throwing his coat over their horrifically yellow sofa. Keith, who was playing Solitaire on their wooden coffee table, looked up from his thick-framed glasses. His red hair matched the autumn leaves that had somehow made their way into their apartment and onto their dusty floor. Dan figured it was John who kept leaving the window open-- _“It’s a fuckin’ Malaysian sweatshop in here!”_

“Out. With friends.” Lottie was Dan’s third and final roommate. Dan never really talked to Lottie or knew a whole lot about her. He knew she was Keith’s girlfriend--who he was madly in love with--but nothing else. She, like most of the female species, was an enigma.

“Yeah,” John giggled, “friends.”

Keigan’s eyes suddenly shifted into the same hue of his hair. Dan figured that was his cue to leave.

 

After being fired from the restaurant (a step-back that was bound to happen sooner or later), Dan restlessly ventured into yet another job-search. He visited every shop, laundromat, and diner within a ten mile radius. He shook countless hands, stretched his lips into numerous fake smiles, and experienced enough rejection to last him a lifetime.  

“Sorry, we’re not hiring.”

“We’re wanting someone with a bit more experience…”

“You’re just not the kind of person we’re looking for.”

As he sat on a suspiciously moist seat amongst the other pallid train passengers, Dan took the time to reevaluate his life. Maybe quitting university and moving to London had been the biggest mistake of his life. Yet, the idea of pursuing a degree in law wasn’t all that tempting either. The whole point of moving to London was to give his mind some clarity, which is ironic considering the amount of fog. He figured it would all fall into place here--what he wanted to do, who he wanted to be, and shit like that. And then, a year went by and Dan isn’t any more sure of himself than he was when he arrived. He rested his head against the cold glass of the train’s window and closed his eyes. He sighed.

“All right, mate?” The voice came from behind. Dan slowly opened his eyes and glanced over to the blue-eyed boy who was currently leaning on the seat beside him. He crossed his arms over the metal frame and smiled behind his black-rimmed glasses. Dan recognized him as his coworker--or rather ex-coworker. _Phil, was it?_

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You haven’t been at the restaurant in a couple days. I know because all our plates are still in tact.” Phil chuckled innocently, unaware that the real reason Dan hadn’t been there was because he had been fired. Dan forced a smile in response.

“I got sacked,” He said with a grim shrug.

Phil slowly sat up straight in his seat, “Oh.”

An awkward moment passed before Phil took the initiative of standing up and sitting in the seat directly beside Dan. Their arms grazed lightly before Phil properly situated himself.

“They pay in peanuts, anyways. You’ll find a better job.” The boy’s nonchalant optimism almost caused Dan to roll his eyes, but he managed to restrain himself. If anything, after a long day of feeling like scum, Dan found it refreshing. Phil’s face didn’t seem to match the pallor of everyone else’s. While pale, it still managed to foster color and life--something everyone else in London failed to do.

One corner of Dan’s lips lifted into a small grin, “They pay shit--you’re right about that. But I doubt I’ll find a job that doesn’t.”

Phil shrugged and slouched in his seat, “Yeah, probably not.”

At this, Dan’s eyebrows narrowed, “Okay, wow, that was quick.”

Phil laughed a good, genuine laugh. With the skin around his eyes creasing and everything. It even made Dan laugh, too. Something he hadn’t realized he was out of practice for.

They talked for a bit longer--about nothing in particular. The topics moved one after the other so quickly, it felt more like a dance than a conversation. A set of steps and movements, however, that came naturally. They fell into each other’s rhythm.

“I get off here,” Phil suddenly announced. Dan tried to hide his disappointment by nodding and offering a small, tight-lipped smile. Phil saw right through it.

“Got a pen?” Dan shook his head. Phil asked a few other passengers, but was only met with grimaces and silence.

He sighed, “Fine, you’ll just have to remember it.” Phil read his phone number aloud, repeating it three times before having Dan regurgitate it back. Dan recited it a few more times in his head.

As the train stopped at its station, Phil stood up and waved goodbye. Dan continued to repeat his number the whole way home, mouthing along with the digits.


	3. unemployed twit

Unemployment, while horrible, did clear up enough time in Dan’s day for other activities. Journaling was a hobby he picked up from one of John’s romantic cohorts--a good natured bookstore clerk with an unhealthy sex addiction. After John fell asleep one night, Dan found her hunched over on their kitchen floor. In front of her, a notebook, markers, decorative tape, and polaroids were splayed in no particular order. Before he knew it, he was helping her cut out stencils.

“Are you gay?” John asked one lazy, Sunday afternoon. Dan was journaling, outlining his to-do list for the week in bright, orange sharpie. Flowers he had already pressed the night before were neatly displayed against the coffee table (aka, his work station). At John’s question, Dan paused his cursive handwriting.

“What?”

“Gay,” John repeated, a bit slower, “A bender. Are you? S’no issue if you are, mate.”

Dan, almost instinctually, looked over at Keith. He didn’t know why, but part of him always looked toward Keith for reassurance. However, in that moment, Keith was merely staring back--expression blank. He had even paused his pre recorded football game to hear Dan’s response.

Dan shook his head, “Piss off.”

Keith and John shared a look Dan couldn’t quite decipher before they both went back to what they were doing. No one, not even John, bothered to ask again. Dan stopped journaling after that.

 

It had been two weeks since Dan saw Phil on the train. Despite having his number scribbled on the back of a chinese take-out menu, Dan had made no effort to call or text. Every day when he’d go get food from their freezer, he would see Phil’s number staring back at him, beckoning him to the phone. He had made it as far as the sixth digit once, but like all the times before that, ultimately hung up.

Now, he was staring at the number again. He lifted the magnet that kept the menu in place and leaned against the counter as he studied the numbers in his hands. A moment of deep contemplation passed before Lottie interrupted his train of thought by snatching the paper out of his fingers. He instantly went to grab it back, a gesture that puzzled and intrigued the short girl.

“Whoa, calm down. I’ll order something for you, too. Relax.” She chuckled and shook her head, making her finely coiled hair bounce. “Who’s number is this?”

She was tracing the digits with her slim, tan fingers. Dan plucked the menu from her grip and shrugged, “A friend’s.”

Lottie gasped, “A friend?” High pitched echoes from around the apartment recited the same word, _Ooh, friend! Football friend! Friend!_

Dan yelled at Keith and John to knock it off. He regretted ever recommending that show to them.

“I bet it’s the number of that cock-eyed bird we saw by Lenny’s Pub,” John smirked as he walked into the living room, “You know, the one with the front teeth missing. Poor mug. Nice tits, though.”

Dan grimaced at the memory--if he thought about it long enough, he could still smell her.

“It’s from an old coworker,” Dan corrected, placing the menu back onto the freezer door, “He might be able to get me my old job back.”

He was lying, of course. Why? He wasn’t so sure.

“Then why haven’t you called?” Lottie asked, eyebrows furrowed. Her hand rested on the slope of her hips.

Dan sighed, grabbed the menu back from the freezer, and made a beeline to his room. The reason he hadn’t called Phil--and he would never dare say this aloud--was that he felt, in a way, incompetent. Unemployment wasn’t something he was very proud of and he knew if he called Phil, the subject would come up eventually.

_“‘Ave you found a job, yet?”_

_“No, I’m still a sad, unemployed twit. I picked up journaling, though.”_

_“Oh, that is sad. And gay. Are you gay?”_

He imagined the conversation would go something along those lines. Nevertheless, he reached for his phone, began dialing the numbers, and waited a full five minutes before finally pressing the green button.

It rang a couple times until,

“Hello?”

Dan froze. Gradual but vibrant heat started to rush to his cheeks at the sound of Phil’s voice. He should have just sent a message.

“Hell..o?” He asked again, in the space of Dan’s silence.

Finally, Dan coughed, “Um, hello. This Phil?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

A name that he had lived with for over twenty years suddenly escaped him. He hesitated for an awkward amount of time. Phil, once again, was left to fill the silence, “Is this Ruben? I told you to delete my number, you twat.”

_Ruben?_

“No, it’s Dan. From the, um, restaurant. And the train.”

There was a pause. This time, through Phil’s loss of words. Then, with a light chuckle, “He lives!”

Dan offered an awkward laugh, “Barely, sure. I’ve been meaning to call you, but stuff just got in the way and all.”

“What, like a job?”

And there it was. Not three minutes into their conversation and the dreaded topic emerged. Dan shifted on his mattress so that his eyes were staring directly at his ceiling. He had shitty, glow-in-the-dark stars peeling against the plaster. He mulled over his response.

“Yeah… something like that.”

“What’d you mean?” He asked. Dan searched for an answer among the stars.

“Depends on your definition of a ‘job’, really.”

“Oh, yeah?” Phil sounded like he was smiling, amused with Dan’s response.

“Am I working? Yes. Am I getting paid? Maybe… in the near future.”

“Doesn’t sound like an alright gig, mate,” He chuckled.

A small grin parted Dan’s lips as he thought of a reply. He found himself a lot more comfortable in the conversation than he had originally imagined--probably because he was lying.

“I’m writing a novel,” said Dan, who was not, in fact, writing a novel.


	4. you saddo

Writing had never been one of Dan’s strong suits, which, he figured, also applied to a lot of universal skills. He just wasn’t good… at anything. Especially writing. But he liked to read the occasional book and he had always thought being an author to something would be a nice life accomplishment (and bragging right).

Still, up until he said it, Dan had never put the idea into fruition. Now, he wasn’t so sure what to do with himself.

“A novel?” Phil asked, “About what?”

“Oh, well...‘bout life,” Dan scrambled for the right choice of words. Little did he know, there weren’t any.

“A book about life? Groundbreaking.”

“Yeah, well, I only just started outlining it. You ought to start being nice to me, though. You might be talkin’ to the next Pulitzer winner.” The idea was so ridiculous, even Dan couldn’t keep a straight face. The words left his lips as a string of bubbling laughter followed.

“And then what? You’ll be knighted by the Queen?”

“Well, yes, that would be the next logical step actually--”

“Sir Daniel Howell,” Phil teased, his voice suddenly higher in pitch, “Has a nice ring to it.”

Dan’s eyebrows raised, “You know my last name?”

Then, a pause. It was short and barely noticeable, but tangible nonetheless. Suddenly, Dan heard Phil shift on the other side of the line, “Well, you’re still on our schedules for some reason.”

“Oh,” was all Dan could think to say. And just like that, their banter had reached an awkward stop. Neither Dan nor Phil could seem to think of another topic. After a load of silence, Dan was about to interject with some more self-deprecating humor, until,

“Listen, I’ve got to go. My mates are waiting for me outside. I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

Dan tried hard to sound nonchalant, to act as if he too had places to be and mates who actually liked him. “Yeah, sure. Later.”

They gave each other half-hearted goodbyes and then, hung up. Dan was left with silence and shitty glow-in-the-dark stars.

 

After his conversation with Phil, Dan decided to give this writing thing a chance. After asking Keith if he could borrow his laptop and Keith begrudgingly saying yes, Dan sat in the living room (per Keith’s request that he not be alone with his laptop) as he desperately tried to brainstorm an idea. It was hard to concentrate, however, with Lottie and Keith eating each other’s faces beside him. An hour had gone by and Dan was still as lost as the minute he sat down. After awhile, he gave up and decided to go outside for a smoke.

As he stood outside his apartment building, swaying with the wind whilst inhaling the end of a cigarette, John’s silhouette appeared from down the block. He walked with a cocky bounce to his step.

“Blessed evening, innit?” John noted, standing beside Dan as he indiscreetly pick-pocketed his Mayfairs. Dan didn’t even attempt to protest. Instead, he watched quietly as John lit the butt end of his cigarette.

“Bloody Mayfairs. These fags are well shit,” He muttered, flicking the cigarette onto the street. Dan grumbled at seeing one go to waste.

“John?” Dan looked over at his fellow roommate. He was a bit shorter than him, had scruffy sand-coloured hair, and bushy-caterpillar eyebrows that gave him a harder edge than he actually possessed. John’s droopy eyes were a dusty shade of green, but in the low light of London, seemed grey. A wave of freckles spotted the bridge of his nose. “D’you ever regret leaving King’s College?”

John furrowed his eyebrows and without missing a beat, shook his head, “Fuck no. Why would I?

Dan shrugged, “I dunno. I mean, do you feel like you made the right decision? Leaving school n’ that? Abandoning what ever chance you had at a well-off life? You ever feel like--”

“‘Ave you been reading my messages, you saddo?” John took a couple steps closer to Dan, in an attempt that he presumed was made to be intimidating. It wasn’t.

Dan laughed as his eyes slightly widened, “What? No! Jesus, John. I was just trying to talk s’all.”

John sized him up once more by squinting his eyes and measuring every inch of his face, eventually surmising that Dan was being truthful. He sat down on the cement steps outside their building. Dan followed suit.

“You tell anyone this and I’ll have you lynched, yeah?”

Dan rolled his eyes.

“My mum thinks I’m still at uni.”

He couldn’t help it, Dan laughed. Loudly, too. The kind of laugh that erupted from the deepest recesses of your gut. John, on the other hand, didn’t think it was all that funny.

“Oh, sod off.”

“That’s brilliant, mate. Well done.”

Once Dan’s laughter died down and the whirling of cars and flying insects were the only things left, John sighed. “It’ll crush her, you know. That’s why I haven’t told her. Once my music career becomes proper and that, then I’ll tell her. But I couldn’t do it now.”

“But,” Dan paused, thinking over his next choice of words, “what if your music never… you know… works out.”

John looked back at Dan and shrugged, “I can’t afford to think like that.”

A thoughtful silence loomed over their heads, both finding themselves in deep contemplation. A single street lamp casted a murky, yellow light onto the opposite end of the street. A swarm of flying insects hugged the warmth of the light and burnt themselves when they flew too close. Then, Dan murmured against the quiet,

“But your music’s well shit.”

 

Dan’s idea for a novel came in a dream. More of a nightmare, really. It was about a boy lost at sea, with no recollection of how he got there and no knowledge of where to go or what to do. He didn’t really know anything beyond that point, but he figured he could at least map it out in the morning. And as he laid in his bed, staring up at his glow-in-the-dark stars, Dan wondered if it was all a bit too on-the-nose.


End file.
